


Random

by takawbelle



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Chance Meetings, F/M, Zutara Month 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:48:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24067615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takawbelle/pseuds/takawbelle
Summary: University is a teeming mass of random humanity but for college freshman Katara, there's one boy she keeps on bumping into.
Relationships: Katara/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 180
Collections: Zutara Month 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This fic took longer than I expected because I just don't _know_ where this is going. I struggled with finding a uniform tone throughout the fic.  
> 2\. The tuna pie here is inspired by the ones at Jollibee. *chef's kiss* Pair it with their peach mango pie and ube pie and you're all set. But I digress.  
> 3\. ATLA is not mine, will never be. Enjoy.
> 
> May 3: Chance Encounter

The first time she crossed paths with him, his head was bowed against the chill. 

The ocean of people flowed like an undulating wave, warily parting to accommodate a group of rowdy Architecture students play-stabbing each other with their T-squares. The ocean closed again and Katara was forced to shunt a little to her right, nearly colliding with the bowed figure. His amber eyes assessed her disinterestedly before walking away.

She readjusted the strap of her new backpack, wondering if he noticed her staring at his scar a beat too long.

_________

Prelims are still a week away but she is already one cold cup of college sludge coffee away from breaking down. She already chewed her fingernails ragged while poring over textbooks. If her current state of mind persists, she would move on to her toenails.

She shuffles along the cafeteria line. Images of plant and animal cells are merging in her mind’s eye. She tries to recall how digestive enzymes work. (The theory is presently lost to her but her stomach makes up for it in practice by giving a hearty growl.)

A pale hand reaches across her and snatches the last tuna pie. _Her_ tuna pie. Finally aware of the boy following her in line, she turns to stare pointedly at the pastry in his clutches, then lifts her chin to glare at _him_. He glares back. His scar adds weight to his glare but Katara is on a different, desperate plane of reality.

Somewhere along their staring match, he huffs and flips the tuna pie back on the tray. She snatches it quickly and never lets go until the tuna pie is dropped in a paper bag by the cashier.

She counts it as a victory, the rightful retrieval of the tuna pie from that thief. Sokka just remarks that he would have also let the tuna pie go if a dishevelled, red-eyed girl bared her teeth at him. He leaves dodging a slipper.

_________

There is a blessed free period before her last Friday class. She leans against a grizzled narra-pine before stretching out her legs on the grass. A shadow flits behind her.

Ah, the tuna pie thief. 

Let bygones be bygones. After all, she morphed back to human form after exam week. 

He settles on the ground, also leaning against the tree next to hers. They ignore each other in peace.

_________

She dashes to the lobby of the Arts and Sciences building. Her first class starts in three minutes and there are four floors and an entire hallway to navigate. Professor Pakku was not the most forgiving of teachers and his favorite joke is addressing the latecomers as “the late So-and-So.”

A crowd has already amassed in front of the elevator. A firm believer of good manners, she stays in the back but also prays to Tui and La for some literal elbow room.

The elevator opens and students rush in. With a sinking heart, she tiptoes to see the elevator swelling with people until the only space within it is the one directly in front of the doors. She sighs loudly, planning her funeral as the late Katara.

The boy in front of her looks back and steps to the side, jerking his chin to the last available space. She recognizes him as the tuna pie thief. He looks almost regretful, as if he were having second thoughts at his display of chivalry.

Acknowledging the favor with a slight nod, she quickly steps in and the elevator closes, giving her a last glimpse of his scar.

She silently thanks Tui and La. And him.

_________

This was no pickup game. This was war and the football field was a battlefield.

The rain and the mud gave an extra element of carnage. Katara was not surprised that when all this is over, the only white among the players would be their teeth and eyeballs. Everything else would be covered in mud. She was only able to recognize her brother because of the distinctive warrior’s wolf tail swishing around.

Suki shrieks beside her as Sokka weaves through three defenders. He moves his legs in place for a push kick but slips on the mud. And like that, the game is over.

The rain slows down to a gentle patter. The two girls wait on the covered sidelines for Sokka, who greets them with a downcast shrug. “At least I have some steaks marinating at home,” he says, already perking up. 

Out of the corner of Katara’s eye, a figure takes off his muddy shirt. Rainwater and droplets of mud are flung from the tips of his hair as he shakes his head vigorously. When he turns to speak to another mud-covered player, she sees the familiar scar. She also sees the controlled tightness of his back, the lean muscles which looked like precise fire contained in a worthy vessel. Her cheeks heat up in spite of the chill. 

And then he was walking in her direction. She feels her breath catch in her throat. He is now a few paces from her. 

Then Sokka, also shirtless – _what is it with shirtless boys and sports?_ – moves past Katara to give him a silent high five. The boy breaks into a grin and the two of them do a post mortem of their loss. Sokka’s bubbly tone is a contrast to the boy’s rasp. 

The boy glances only once at her. Amused and smug. A little trickle of rainwater slides past his collar bone and he stands a little straighter. She averts her eyes from his chest. 

Her cheeks still feel warm during the ride home.

_________

The five books she borrowed for midterm studying are straining her arms. She curses her earlier enthusiasm and adjusts the topmost book, which was wobbling dangerously. The streets are dark and near-deserted now. Two men were talking behind her but she determinedly maintains her pace.

It was only when one of them asks her where she’s going that she quickens her walk. She turns to memorize their faces: one is stocky and swarthy while his companion is of lighter complexion. Both of them look too old to be college students. Both of them are wearing identical leers. 

She nervously assesses how far the nearest diner is. Three buildings away. The streetlamp was a weak refuge, but better than none. At least she might be seen by some helpful passersby. If not, she can still fall back on the basic self-defense Sokka taught her. 

A red car passes by in the opposite direction. She waves desperately. It slows just a bit before going on its way. No one to turn to now, she drops her books to the ground and puts up a fighting stance, eyes darting between the two laughing men.

Then, there is a squeal of tires as the same car executes a sharp U-turn. The men are gone before the car jerks to a stop beside her.

The driver gets out and for some strange reason, it did not surprise her that it was him. He looks angry and worried but his features later smoothen to a blank expression. He helps her with her books and says, “You’re Sokka’s sister, right? I’ll drive you home.”

When she gets off, she thanks him quietly. He nods, the slightest of smiles on his lips. Then he was gone.

There would be more chance encounters for her to learn his name.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… I’m attempting a multi-chapter fic. All my work have been one-shots so far. We’ll see if I have enough discipline and dedication to pull off a multi-chappie. Thank you, leftover gin, for the impetus.

It was already a week after the incident and Katara swore she made it all up. Yet, the fear-induced sweat trickling down her neck and the sharp squeal of tires abruptly turning on concrete were too vivid to be chalked off as whimsical musings. It was real. It happened. _He_ happened.

During the ride home she was too rattled at the swift turn of events to ever think of understanding the assault she was nearly subjected to, let alone asking him questions about himself. 

Not that he made it any easier. He was impassive and silent; only the jerky motions of his hands on the steering wheel indicated that she was sitting next to a living, breathing human being. 

Upon reaching home, Katara dazedly stood under the shower, letting the incessant droplets batter her skin and restore some semblance of sanity. Much later, with a cooling mug of cocoa nestled between her palms, the numbness faded and the wheels of her mind slowly turned.

She wondered about who he really was. One doesn’t bump into another person so randomly yet consistently without at least wondering about the other’s name. Then and there, she decided to think of him partly as a work in progress, partly as a fascinating yet skittish animal. 

After a week’s worth of eagle-eyed surveillance on Sokka, she had nothing to show for it. No online presence of the mystery boy, no mention at all from Sokka about his football buddies. 

The front door slammed and she cocked her head to the side to see Sokka hopping on one foot while attempting to remove his Vans. 

“Tuition’s paid halfway now. Finances should be smooth sailing until the end of the sem,” he declared while marching triumphantly into the kitchen and helping himself to a steamed rice cake. 

“No pick-up football games this week?” Katara asked in a deceptively casual tone. 

“How uncharacteristic of you to forget that midterms are just around the corner,” he remarked while spraying mouthfuls of rice cake.

“How uncharacteristic of you to even remember that we have exams,” she retorted, gingerly flicking away the specks which landed on her shoulder. 

Still, Sokka was right. She counted med school as one of her pit stops to a better and meaningful life but as dreams go, hers required more elbow grease than stardust. She had to put in a decent showing for midterms if she wanted to keep her scholarship. Less privileged she may be, but she also had to prove she was deserving. Gran-Gran’s kindly smile flashed before her and she can almost feel her father’s warm hand squeezing her shoulder in goodbye. 

With a sigh, she trudged to the bedroom where her textbooks waited in neat piles.

_______________

Two textbooks and three days later, any curiosity she had for the mystery boy was rudely shoved to the side by the more definite threat of midterms. True to form, she gulped down cup after cup of black coffee as frequently as Sokka chugged his own beer. ( _Stimulants for you, depressants for me,_ he said with a wink.)

She had taken to holing up her room, only coming out at random intervals to cook haphazardly. Sokka said the quality of her cooking depended on her mental state and it was particularly true where exams week are concerned. Nevertheless, he silently ate her overcooked soggy noodles and crunchy fried eggs out of brotherly devotion and self-preservation. If she saw him discreetly spit out the stray eggshells, she never said anything. 

“Why don’t you get some sleep, Kat?” Sokka asked her not unkindly one night when she shuffled to the bathroom to take her only bath of the day. A jumble of books and computations surrounded him but here he was, slouching like a king at the battered dining table while she crept about like some hybrid bison-lemur, afraid of any contact with humanity. She barely heard him sigh as she closed the bathroom door. 

Just a few days now and she’ll be free.

_______________

Just after lunch, the rain started as a tentative drizzle. The kitchen clock now said a quarter to three and the rain transformed into a hazy monster throwing sheet after sheet of water against the window panes. 

She was just getting the hang of algebra. Sokka left her some explanations and computations hastily scribbled on a sheet of yellow pad. After an hour of dedicated studying, his cramped handwriting finally made sense. She was nibbling a cookie as a reward when she heard a knock. During her sojourn between the kitchen and the front door, the knocking escalated into frantic, angry pounding. For a second, she was four years old again, pigtails flying behind her, and the same staccato of thumps on the door signaled the untimely death of her mother. _SokkaDadGran_ , her brain repeated in no particular order. She was expecting a police officer’s blue to greet her when she opened the door. 

What she saw was a faded, red sweater and an even redder familiar scar.

“Uh, hi. Is Sokka home?”


	3. Chapter 3

The rain lashed on but she just stood there, shoulders sagging and head cocked to the side. 

He scowled, obviously not pleased with being left out in the rain, but his features quickly rearranged themselves into something resembling sheepishness. After all, how does he expect her to react when he appears unannounced on her doorstep, bedraggled and soaked and looking like a crazed fugitive? He self-consciously rubbed his arm and said, “So, uh, can I come in?”

 _That’s what vampires do. They ask permission to enter your home,_ she dazedly thought. Wordlessly, she stepped aside. 

Closing the door noticeably muted the rain by a few degrees, cocooning the two of them into an awkward silence. Rainwater from his soggy sweater dripped liberally to the linoleum floor and slowly formed an ever-widening puddle. 

He shifted his weight from one foot to another. “I might need a change of clothes.” The statement sounded like it had difficulty identifying itself as a request or a command.

Nodding without looking at him, she turned on her heels and scurried away, but not before catching the muttered _and I’m sorry for barging in like this._

_______________

The pressure of maintaining her scholarship had gotten to her head and now she’s hallucinating That Boy as fiercely as Sokka imagined those platypus bears in tutus after he chugged a tumbler of cactus juice on a dare. At least Sokka had a good, if laughable, trip then; she, on the other hand, felt cornered… against what? Why did she feel like that the universe was on to her little fascination with That Boy and why did that feel so _shameful_? A vigorous shake of the head. As if doused in icy water, she recovered her bearings and dialled Sokka’s number.

It took four tries before Sokka answered. By then she had taken calming breaths in front of the dresser mirror. The dark rings encircling her eyes and her frizzy, unwashed hair made her look like a hungry raccoon-crow. 

“Baby sis, what’s up? The roof, get it? _Because it’s always up!_ ” He allowed himself a proud little chuckle before chattering again. “So is the roof leaking again? Man, this rain’s gonna turn into a typhoon and the weather guy said -”

“Sokka,” she said slowly as she pinched the space between her eyes, “you remember that football buddy of yours? The one with the scar?”

He spoke after a thoughtful silence. “We played a few games, sure, maybe cracked some jokes together, but it’s like he’s just waiting for the next tornado to carry him out of town, you know? He’s not exactly my buddy. ” 

Her eyebrows lifted. As amiable as she is, Sokka is on a whole new level. He was always high-fiving and nodding cheerfully at just about anybody around campus, from the music majors to students from obscure, specialized programs like packaging engineering. _Everyone_ was his buddy.

“Just so we’re on the same page: burn scar on the face, shaggy hair, yellow eyes like a hungry arctic wolf. We’re talking about the same person, right?” she hissed impatiently.

“Righty-o. And you’re talking like you’ve read one too many romance novels. Were you dreaming about his ‘yellow eyes like a’-”

“He’s here and he wants to talk to you so unless you want me to tell _Arctic Wolf_ that you found his yellow eyes so dashing -”

“Alright, alright. Get him on the phone,” he huffed against the receiver.

She marched back out to where he was standing awkwardly and handed him the phone silently, turning on her heel to get the clothes he… demanded? Requested? The door to Sokka’s bedroom gave way with a protest. Her eyes briefly scanned the hand-drawn models of quirky machines and computer printouts of photos taken on Sokka’s crummy Sony phone before resting on the drawer. She hastily settled for a decent pair of football shorts - fixedly bypassing Sokka’s boxers in varying degrees of tatteredness - and a faded blue shirt still intact at the seams although the flaking white print can barely spell “Boomerang Buddies.” For good measure, she forcefully slapped together a pair of Crocs, the dust falling on the already-dirty floor. Armed with the clothes, she made her way back to the living room where he was standing in a corner, talking quietly into the phone. Judging by the lone puddle in the room, he hadn’t moved from his spot since he stepped in their home. 

She piled the clothes on the ratty sofa, arranged the Crocs on the floor, and waited. 

“Yeah, left it a block from here. No, I’m not worried. No one’ll want that hunk of junk. Thanks, man.”

He lowered the phone and met her eyes, approaching her with measured steps. She stiffened. Suddenly, “Arctic Wolf” doesn’t sound like a bad nickname for him. At least it was better than “Mystery Boy” or “That Boy.” 

_Though she can call him by so many names and still not know who he is, really._

He handed her the phone back. She carefully took it, avoiding touching him.

“Thanks for letting me use your phone, uh -” His slit of an eye narrowed a fraction in hesitation and the sheepish look returned.

She realized he was asking for her name in a roundabout way. The irony of it. 

She cleared her throat. “Katara. My name’s Katara.”

“And I’m Zuko,” he said with a faint smile ghosting his lips.


	4. Chapter 4

It was already close to an hour yet Sokka still had not come home. Katara was folding the sheet of computations into the precise creases of a paper plane, all her plans for studying already having flown out the window. She discreetly eyed Zuko through the doorway leading to the living room. _He has a name now, wonder of wonders._

He was sitting on the sofa, his back straight, eyes closed and palms resting serenely on his knees. By then, the rain had slowed to a gentle patter coinciding with the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. 

It was almost domestic.

His own wet clothes were folded neatly in a plastic bag beside him. Dressed in Sokka’s clothes, he looked far less the expressionless stoic she often brushed past and more like… a roommate, if she lived in a dorm? A boy next door? Whatever he looked like now, she couldn’t get past the juxtaposition with how he appeared to her in the past.

She ransacked her mind for something to break the silence. He was, after all, a guest. An unexpected guest who threw her off-balance, but his brother’s guest still.

Transported to the past, she can hear her grandmother’s soft voice amidst the crackling of the fire and the leftover musk of the pelts. _Now, Katara, treat guests like family. They have done something to deserve the honor of being invited to our abode, to be treated like kin beyond blood. After all, what is humanity if not one big family not yet introduced to each other?_

Suddenly a yellow eye cracked open. “If there’s anything you want to say, you can just say it,” he said in a neutral tone.

A guest who threw her off-balance, indeed.

She frowned and made a show of not being affected. “I was just making some egg drop soup since Sokka’s coming home soon. Would you like some?”

He nodded once and closed his eyes to resume meditating. 

_So if he doesn’t appreciate being offered food but he also saved me from whatever it was, does it make him a semi-jerk? Half-jerk? If so, am I justified in showing him the bare minimum as well? Would a bowl of egg drop soup (fine, throw in the remaining good rice cakes for dunking) and a glass of tap water qualify as “polite enough”?_

Fuming now, she turned on the stove and glared at the swirling water in the pot. 

She was just getting to the spring onions and garlic when the door slammed open. With a sigh, she looked back to see her brother vigorously shaking his head from side to side like a polar dog just out in the rain. With his wolftail now hanging limply down the back of his head, Sokka did look like a forlorn polar dog.

With a little satisfaction, she noted that Zuko scrunched his nose at having some of the rain droplets land on him.

Sokka greeted her with a vague wave and turned to Zuko. “Buddy, that car of yours is a sweet miracle. They don’t make Lightning Phoenixes anymore.” He trailed off in a dreamy voice, the one usually reserved for Suki and meat. 

The other boy just inclined his head and waited. Katara didn’t know whether Zuko was annoyed or just patient. Perhaps both.

“So, anyway, your spark plug just conked out. Needs to be changed. I can replace it with my spare. I’ve got plenty of those,” Sokka shrugged. 

Zuko stood up and bowed stiffly. “Thank you for your help. I’m sure changing the spark plug can wait until after dinner.” His eyes flicked briefly over to her before he addressed Sokka again. “Katara offered me some egg drop soup. It’s been ages since I’ve tasted it. May I stay for dinner?”

Sokka looked at Zuko funnily, then shifted his gaze to Katara. She eyed him back curiously. Then, Sokka suddenly snapped out of his reverie and walked towards the kitchen. “Sounds good to me.” 

He poked his head back through the doorway and added matter-of-factly, “But you’re doing the dishes, _buddy_.”  
_____________

The next day dawned too bright, too clear, for Katara’s Water Tribe senses. The hot days and gentle summers in Ba Sing Se were too much for her mind still used to midnight sun. The sparrowkeets chirped happily outside but her sleep-addled brain imagined them frying in whale blubber.

Just when she was drifting off to sleep with comforting images of swirling, powder-white snow and the kayaks crunching against the bay, a hand steadily knocked against their front door. 

She imagined that hand - in her mind’s eye, male and shapely - in the wok frying next to the sparrowkeets. 

A male voice rasped, “Katara?”

She pulled the blankets over her face and was about to properly to ignore Zuko when he cajoled, “I have pancakes.”


	5. Chapter 5

She propped her chin on her palm and stared at Zuko with bleary eyes.

“Tell me why you’re at my doorstep at ten in the morning. Nice boys don’t show up and disrupt someone’s pre-exam beauty sleep,” she said through slow mouthfuls of pancake. On the same table were the clothes he borrowed from Sokka, now washed and neatly pressed.

He just raised his unburnt eyebrow and silently pushed the bottle of honey in her direction. After another mouthful, she leaned back and waited expectantly.

Sighing, he explained, “My uncle told me to bring Sokka a ‘thank you’ gift for fixing my car. So there. Like the _nice boy_ I am, I gave said gift.” He looked physically pained to say it.

“But I’m not Sokka,” she muttered as she drowned the remaining pancakes in more honey while remaining slouched.

“You’re the only one home,” he stated slowly, making sure to enunciate each word like he was speaking to a particularly stubborn child. “Besides, I’m not bringing these pancakes to class. Either I drop them off here or they’ll get soggy so I’ll just give them to the cabbage merchant outside my uncle’s tea shop.” He mirrored her slouch and they studied each other mulishly.

After a while, Katara lifted another forkful. “Well, thank you. The pancakes are tasty,” she conceded as primly as she can even though her brown hair was still frizzy and a spot of drool rested on one shoulder of her cotton pajamas.

He appeared mollified and tore off a piece from the last pancake, dabbing it with some of the honey on her plate. “Yeah, they are,” he said, a self-satisfied smile almost lifting the corners of his lips.

They chewed in silence. Unlike last night when they had the wet static of the rain outside, this morning brought with it only the silence after a deluge.

The twin needs to fill up the silence and to simply know more about him simply were too great to ignore.

“Where do you live, anyway?” she asked against herself.

“Why do you care?”

He smirked. While she privately and grudgingly admitted it looked good on him, she was also tempted to wipe it off his face.

“So I’d tell your uncle to cook more pancakes,” she retorted. It was never a good idea to piss off Katara of the Water Tribe at a time of personal, _academic_ stress.

“I cooked them!” he managed to indignantly gasp after he choked on a bite.

She eyed him interestedly and asked, “What else do you cook?”

Zuko finally smiled outright, brightening his sullen face. He proudly counted off, “Fire flakes, a mean bowl of ramen, grilled beef… Hey! You’re trying to trick me!”

The honey just flowed faster in her hand as she doubled over, laughing.

“Did it work?”

He just harrumphed and shifted in his seat.

“But really,” she tried again before the awkwardness of last night returned, “it was nice of you to bring some food even though it was supposed to be Sokka’s, uh, mechanic’s fees.”

She added hesitantly but sincerely, “Thank you.”

He didn’t reply, letting seconds tick by. He finally glanced at the clock and abruptly made to leave. “I have to get going. My exam’s in half an hour,” he said neutrally.

With a slight nod, he looked back and added, a little more softly, “See you around then, Katara.”

The low hum of his car still lingered in the distance as she thoughtfully chewed the last bite of Zuko’s pancakes.

_“See you around,” huh?_

_______________

At home, Sokka sorrowfully reprimanded her for eating all his “mechanic’s fees” so she stuck out her tongue and suggested that he fix more of Zuko’s cars so he could earn more pancakes. “He probably has more vintage cars that would just magically conk out for you to fix,” she teased.

Sokka closed his textbook and leaned forward, chin resting on steepled fingers, an unusually thoughtful expression on his face. “I doubt it. Dude drives a vintage car that’s worth more than our tuition fees combined – that’s until my master’s degree and your med school, mind you – but somehow he can’t afford to pay for towing.”

“So what?”

“So nothing. He’s just an odd turtle duck. I heard he came from old money somewhere in the Fire Nation but he was disinherited.” Sokka’s voice dropped to a whisper at the last word like he was telling a ghost story by the campfire.

She took a leaf out of Zuko’s book and just kept silent. True, he was a study in contradictions. He obviously came from some noble Fire Nation lineage, judging from the way he carried himself – like he was born to command the fate of thousands – to the almost-delicate sharpness of his cheekbones and chin. Based on appearances alone, he was as patrician as Katara was proudly hard-working middle class. But something didn’t add up. He wore a ratty old sweater. The car he drove, while fetching a hefty sum if it were well-maintained, was a “hunk of junk,” as he generously described it. His uncle operates a tea shop, certainly not an endeavor most of Fire Nation nobility aspire to.

Just who was he?


End file.
